


Ministry Visit

by trueamericanenglish (captainalston)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 02:00:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2331068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainalston/pseuds/trueamericanenglish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dragged along to the Ministry of Magic to spend a day with his older brother, Sherlock pouts, moans, and plans a jailbreak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ministry Visit

**Author's Note:**

> **Old:** Written because geniusbee and I were talking Wizlock about a week ago and this has been stuck in my head since. Plus, impishtubist has been getting me into Sherstrade. So now I just need more Lestrade and Sherlock moments in my life.
> 
>  **New:** A super fun AU that I'm sad I've never really delved into again. Still, enjoy this snarky little Sherlock and his tenuous relationship with little Mycroft.

“Stop fidgeting,” Mycroft chided, shooting a look at Sherlock. “And stand up straight.”

If anything, the belligerent twelve-year-old only hunched over more. His shoulders turned in and he glared at all the passing wizards over his upturned collar.

Mycroft didn’t bother fighting the useless fight. “Over here, Sherlock,” he murmured, guiding his brother to his office despite the shuffling and scuffling of the little boy’s feet. As they passed other witches and wizards who cooed after Sherlock, Mycroft had to keep a placid smile in place so he didn’t stab the younger boy through the foot to make him move faster into the office.

Once inside the walled-in room, the slimmest layer of social propriety left Mycroft’s shoulders and he all but glared down at Sherlock. “Do try and behave. I am no more thrilled at the prospect of you coming to work with me, but Mother did insist, so at least feign interest.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flounced into one of the two armchairs Mycroft left out for guests and dignitaries. From his newfound seat, he proceeded to glare at his older brother as if he could go home if he willed it hard enough.

Sighing, Mycroft simply sat behind his desk, brushing his brother’s silent tantrum off. “If you had come up with better ways to entertain yourself besides trying to contain a small fire in the garden pond, you wouldn’t be sitting in this office. You have only yourself to blame,” he murmured, quite reminding himself of their father.

With an invisible shudder, Mycroft shuffled through the papers on his desk. Even overnight, the world continued to turn, and sometime over the past year he’d all but become in charge of keeping the wizarding world a secret from the Muggles. Not that it was his department, but the paperwork kept coming in and he had to keep signing off on it.

Sherlock managed to keep himself entertained for a full three minutes. He sat silent and sullen, kicking his legs back and forth under the chair with his arms folded in belligerence over his chest. Three minutes and six seconds until a surprisingly loud, “BORED!” snapped through the room.

Allowing himself a silent sigh, Mycroft glanced up from his paperwork with a look of disapproval. Unfortunately, the tapping of Sherlock’s fingers against his arm was a sure sign that the boredom had reached fatal levels. Either entertainment would be found for Sherlock, or Sherlock would find it himself, and then it would most likely involve fire or explosions. And even if Mother had impressed upon Sherlock that it would not be at all fine to test how quickly the Ministry employees could evacuate the building, Mycroft didn’t trust her warnings to win out over Sherlock’s boredom on the best of days.

He was about to call for his secretary when he realized Anthea was already halfway through the door. “Emergency meeting with the Department of Mysteries, sir.”

She dropped her head slightly and a piece of paper went barreling through the doorway and dropped on his desk. The official summons from the Department of Mysteries.

“I asked for all of my meetings to be canceled today,” Mycroft snipped.

“Sorry sir, emergency.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” he conceded, already halfway out of his chair, shuffling the papers into some semblance of order for when he returned. They wouldn’t have summoned him if it wasn’t important. Not after he impressed upon the heads of each department how important it was not to call after him unless absolutely necessary.

Frowning, he grabbed two folders off his desk, taking a fleeting glance at Sherlock who was still drumming his fingers against his arm. His gaze seemed to only grow darker and more sullen as Mycroft headed for the door.

He paused for a moment in front of his brother who gazed up at him with his pale, pouting eyes. “Sherlock, you will stay here. I will be back shortly to arrange a tour of the Ministry,” his brother huffed, “or some other activity to keep you busy. In the meantime, do try to be civil.”

Sherlock crinkled up his nose, and Mycroft left. He hadn’t expected any agreement or promises, but he did hope his brother could manage to contain himself for thirty minutes. Still, just to be sure, he locked the door and let Anthea bewitch the office so it was fire proof. No reason to make things easy for the younger Holmes.

—-

Once the footsteps of both Mycroft and Anthea had disappeared down the hallway and all was left was the scuffling of other witches and wizards passing by the office, Sherlock slipped out of the arm chair and onto the floor. He was still getting used to his growing, gangly legs, but he managed to scramble around the room with relative ease.

Though he’d distinctly heard Mycroft lock the door, he still checked the handle. Yes, definitely locked.

Frowning, he looked round the room for another exit or materials to help him get out. His mother hadn’t let him take his wand with him—not that he was allowed to do magic outside of school anyway—which left him with some scraps of paper in one pocket and lint in the other. Mycroft had done a meticulous pat down on Sherlock to make sure he didn’t bring any explosives or vials of “experiments” into the office with him. It was insulting, but also one of his brother’s more clever moments.

To accompany his paper and lint were a few more sheaves of paper on the desk, an ink well in the corner, and a feather to the side of that. There were two other chairs besides the one he’d been sitting in, and there was little chance of him being able to move any of them a significant distance. Much less manage to, say, throw them at the door and orchestrate his escape.

Which only left the option of “accidental” magic. He couldn’t do magic without a wand—he certainly wasn’t ready for wandless magic, as much as he hated to admit it even to himself—but he’d performed magic without a wand before. It was practically expected of children from wizarding families to show some sign of magic before attending school. He’d run wild for a few years once he realized he could levitate himself over the hedges in the garden. (Well, tumble was a more accurate term.)

And so he sat in front of the door, willing the lock to unbolt. He glared and started and mumbled all sorts of words under his breath. Everything from “alohomora” to “fritzephelphs.” None of them worked and the door remained shut. After two minutes, he abandoned it as a lost cause.

His next course of action was to scramble onto the desktop and retrieve the feathered quill from beside his brother’s paperwork.  Vaulting back to the door, he stuck the pointed tip into the keyhole, trying to pick the lock.

Even as he started twisting, he knew the idea was silly. The door had been locked by magic, and even if it hadn’t, the book he’d read on picking locks always suggested using bobby pins and paper clips. The quill was barely small enough to fit into the keyhole.

The feather didn’t last five minutes. The tip snapped off, getting lost in the key hole, and Sherlock jerked the damn thing out, glaring murderously at the stupid thing. In twenty minutes—if he was lucky—his brother would be back and ordering him about and making him go on stupid tours of the stupid Ministry and stupid departments he couldn’t care less about. It was all so boring and everyone here just sat behind desks and read papers and didn’t know a single, interesting thing. And he was stuck in here, with all of them.

He was far too old to cry and he was infinitely too intelligent to get angry about stupid people. But Mycroft wasn’t stupid, and he could hate and scream and yell at his brother and he could be frustrated for being locked up in this room like a little kid.

Swiping at his face, he grit his teeth and swallowed hard. He hated his brother sometimes. Why did he have to be locked up like this? He wasn’t a child!

Screwing up his face, he stepped back and chucked the only thing he had in his hands in his fit of anger. While a feather was one of the most docile things he’d thrown during a tantrum, the resounding explosion when it hit the door was one of the more aggressive conclusions.

The door swung open without hesitation, and while adults jumped up in surprise and alarm all yelling at one another, Sherlock dashed out of his prison as quickly as his still short legs would take him. One stout man reached down to grab him, but Sherlock tumbled out of the way. Then a hook-nosed woman tried to grab him and he kicked that one in the shins.

Within a few moments, as the chaos was dying down, Sherlock ducked out of the room and down the hallway, already looking for somewhere to hide before one of the adults realized that the younger Holmes brother had escaped. Though rather than hide out in one of the many closets, he ended up deciding on the elevator, jumping into it as others left.

Once inside, he stood next to the wizard in the corner—the one distracted, reading his Daily Prophet—and pretended to be the man’s son. Easier than dealing with the, “where are your parents?” question he always seemed to get. He wasn’t five years-old. He didn’t need someone holding his hand everywhere he went.

After a few floors, when they hit the ninth floor, his stand-in dad left the elevator and Sherlock followed along until the elevator shut behind them. Then he ditched the side of the wizard and started off down one of the other hallways looking for something to entertain him until his brother managed to hunt him down. Something more entertaining than a tour of the Ministry administration.

Glancing about the corridor he found himself in, Sherlock frowned in annoyance. The walls were plain and the ground didn’t have any distinguishing marks to define where he was. Clearly in the lower levels of the Ministry, but beyond that, nothing.

He crept down the hallway, sticking to the side and keeping an eye out for side doors to dash into if any adults suddenly appeared. However, there were no doors or adults to be seen.

When he did find a door, it was the only one and it stood at the end of the hallway, long and looming. It was black and as bland as the corridor he’d be walking. He didn’t like it. Even when he approached the door and really stared at the door, there was nothing particularly unique about it. Expect, perhaps that it was black. That was a little out of the ordinary.

His right hand was halfway to the wood to test the strength when a voice echoed down the hallway. “Well hello there. I thought I saw someone creeping down the corr’dor.”

Damn. He’d been caught.

Huffing, Sherlock dropped his hand and spun round, folding his arms and glaring at the oncoming figure. About six feet tall. Hair dark brown. Young. Collared shirt unbuttoned at the top and suit jacket on, but open. Dressy, but not formal. He’d been reading the files in the folder under his arm, then shoved the papers back in roughly when he closed the folder. So he’d been reading and walking along when he saw Sherlock.

The little boy glanced the man up and down a few more times. Watch was cheap, nicked and scraped at around the sides. Shoes were scuffed at the end and dirt that refused to come off in the wash clung to the edges of his trousers. Regularly involved in fieldwork, but not today. His wand was strapped to his arm—easily concealed but not easily stolen.

Auror. Still young and low in the hierarchy, but competent enough to be sent on cases. More likely as back up than going solo, though.

Satisfied, Sherlock looked up and caught the Auror watching him, a curious flicker of mirth in his eyes. “Done then?” Had his observations really been so obvious? He must work on that. “C’mon, you shouldn’t be down here. Not a place for kids to be wand’ring about.”

Sherlock glared at the use of “kids,” but the man already had a hand on his back, pushing him forward as he ruefully scuffled along. “I’m not a ‘kid,’” he muttered, already knowing how childish he sounded.

If he was heard, he didn’t receive a response. “So, what were you doing roaming around the ninth floor all on your own?”

More jabs at him being a child. He didn’t like this man. He didn’t like him at all. “What’s behind the door?”

Sherlock expected the man to get annoyed. Usually adults got angry if he didn’t answer their questions. Especially when he was getting himself into trouble.

“That’s the door to the Department of Mysteries. If you go in there without not knowing how to get through the Entrance Chamber, you could get stuck for quite a while.”

Despite himself, Sherlock was interested. “What’s in the Entrance Chamber?”

“A puzzle.” The little boy’s eyes light up. “There’s about a dozen doors or so. Pick the right one and you can get through. Pick the wrong one and you stay stuck.”

“I bet I could figure it out.”

“You probably could. Given enough time.”

That should sound patronizing. Like most adults when they assure their children, “Yes, you can be Minister one day! I believe in you!” But it wasn’t. He sounded like he honestly believed Sherlock could figure out the puzzle. Suspicious.

He jutted out a little puffy lip as he looked the adult up and down again. “So what is an Auror doing near the Department of Mysteries? Surely you’re not trying to sneak in yourself?”

He snorted, but grinned, ruffling Sherlock’s unruly curls (which Sherlock did NOT appreciate) then stuck his hand in his pocket. “Like a miniature, you are,” he mumbled, glancing up. At the wall he turned, directing Sherlock to the elevator. “’course not.  I was looking around for a friend. Probably in meetings, though. He usually is.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, entering the elevator, though not exactly by choice. “So he works for the Department of Mysteries?”

“He might as well.” The Auror stepped into the lift and glanced down, expectantly. Though he received no response. “So what floor are you supposed to be on?”

The unruly little boy folded his arms across his chest in defiance. His lips pressed together and he glared up from under his curly fringe.

The Auror smirked. “If you don’t tell me, you’re going to be stuck coming back to my office.” The scowl darkened. “I can’t just leave you to roam ‘bout the Ministry without some supervision. So, you going to tell me or what?”

“Or what” was Sherlock’s preferred choice, and a few minutes later they were on the second floor, turning the corner, and facing the large oak doors to the Auror’s Headquarters. “Still can’t remember where you’re supposed to be?”

Sherlock didn’t respond, already moving towards the door with awe in his eyes. Sighing, the Auror moved ahead of him and shoved the doors open, inviting him in. Though it was rather underwhelming once he saw the inside.

“Cubicles?” His distain and disappointment were clear in his voice. “I thought Aurors were supposed to do field work. Hunt down criminals and such,” he muttered, glancing at all the little desks with men and women hunched over them, scribbling away. They might as well all have Mycroft’s job, except Aurors didn’t even get their own office.  Even Mycroft had four walls to himself.

This was entirely disappointing.

His guide shrugged, already moving among the desks over to his own cubicle space. “Yeah, well even Aurors have to do paperwork. Part of the job. All of the job if you’re new, actually.”

With a flop, the man dropped into a swivel chair and Sherlock was promptly ignored in favor of filling out some forms in front of him.

Huffing, Sherlock glanced about, picking out any information he could. Pictures indicated a family—one older brother, one younger brother, and a younger sister seemed most likely, with a pair of parents flanking their children. There was a separate picture of his father, probably dead or very important if he warranted his own picture.  No other clear personal touches to the office. Kept his business life and personal life separate. Or had other reasons for distancing himself from his home life.

Sweeping his eyes over the various forms, Sherlock picked up the man’s name—Gregory Lestrade. Dull. Forms were mostly from The Department of Magical Law Enforcement but there were a few strange ones from the Department of Magical Transportation. Highly suspicious.

Before he could deduce anymore from the office, Greg had spun round in his chair and released a parchment of flying paper into the air. Sherlock watched it flap over to the large oak doors before squeezing between the crack and disappearing altogether.

“What was that?”

“A letter,” Greg replied with more than a little fake innocence in his voice. Then, before Sherlock could challenge his motives, he was jumping right back in to conversation. “Alright, so you’re,” he paused, glancing Sherlock up and down, “’bout twelve now, yes?”

“Yes,” Sherlock responded in a stiff voice. “Why?”

But Greg brushed off the question. “Finished your first year of Hogwarts, did you?” A slow nod. “Where were you sorted?”

“Ravenclaw.”

“Ah. That’s a good house, isn’t it?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed and he frowned. “There’s a bad house?” he asked, trying to sound curious, but it came out challenging. These Aurors were quite often Gryffindors, and Gryffindors hated Slytherins. And for as much as Sherlock couldn’t stand his brother, he liked it even less when other people grew suspicious of his brother just for being a Slytherin.

Gregory just grinned as if he’d read Sherlock’s mind. “Relax. One of my best friends is a Slytherin. They’ve got their good lot and their bad lot too.”

Wait, so he was defending Slytherins? But he wasn’t a Slytherin? “Then you are-?”

“Gryffindor, yeah,” he nodded. When Sherlock’s face bunched up in confusion, he shook his head with a little smile. “You can have friends outside your own house, you know. Even Gryffindors and Slytherins can get along.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, but still seemed dubious.

Leaving the boy to mull it over in his head, Lestrade leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together and cradling his head. “So, made any friends, have you?”

The boy blinked, but shook his head rather quickly, devoid of the usual remorse a child of his age would have when the admitted to being friendless. “Everyone in my year is stupid and boring. There’s no point in trying to make friends with them.”

Lestrade quirked an eyebrow, and without understanding why, Sherlock suddenly felt guilty. “And besides, I’m no good at it. And it’s hard.” His gaze dropped to his hands and he was surprised to find he was fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “And not worth it.”

Greg leaned forward, clapping the side of Sherlock’s shoulder with a rough hand. A gesture he would usually not allow, but he didn’t mind so much when Greg did it. It wasn’t patronizing. He seemed to have some understanding of Sherlock’s situation. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. Just because making friends is hard now doesn’t mean it always will be.”

Sherlock huffed, quite used to the pep-talks on friend making. It never worked.

The Auror smirked, ruffling his hair. “Alright, fine, ignore me. I’m sure things’ll work out for a clever kid like you, at least at some point.”

The boy rolled his eyes in distain, but a little grin tugged at the corner of his lips. He didn’t smile, but his muscles were as sore as if he had.

“Ah, Sherlock.” The hint of a smile disappeared and he turn round to face his older brother, looming over the cubicle entrance. “I’ve found you at last.” And he was not pleased, though his placid face didn’t exactly give his anger away. It was more of a mood he seemed to carry with him.

Greg jumped to his feet and Sherlock finally realized the little letter from earlier had been a summons for Mycroft to pick up his little brother. Sherlock glared at his traitor. “Hey, My. Thought he was yours. You should have told me you were bringing your baby brother to work today.”

Sherlock distained the word, “baby.”

“I hadn’t been aware he was coming until this morning.”

And Sherlock distained the fact that they were talking over him. Both literally and figuratively.

“Still, I could have watched him during your meeting.”

And now he apparently needed a babysitter.

“No, I wouldn’t ever consider troubling you like that.”

Well, he actually took pride in being a menace. Closest thing he’d gotten to a compliment in this entire conversation.

Greg shrugged, placing a warm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’ve gotta say, minus wandering around the ninth floor, he’s really quite well-behaved. None of the famous temper tantrums you promised me.”

Sherlock refused to beam and decided to roll his eyes instead to avoid his brother’s curious stare. He could already feel Mycroft analyze every string of fabric on his person. He’d probably already pieced together how Sherlock snuck off and everywhere he’d been in the past half hour.

“Interesting. Well, we won’t trouble you anymore. Come along, Sherlock.”

Had he mentioned he hated being treated like a pet? He did.

Eyebrows furrowed and face drawn into sullen resignation, Sherlock turned to follow his brother’s long lanky legs out the door.

“Hey, Sherlock!”

He turned round to find Lestrade bending down to better reach his eye level. The older man placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a warm little press. “Remember what I said about friends, okay? You’ll find yours.”

“Mm,” Sherlock nodded, not entirely sure he actually wanted a friend at Hogwarts. Especially given his options. But it might also be nice. “I’ll try.”

Greg nodded and let him go, returning to his feet. “Well, best be off. Be a good kid and all that.”

Nodding, Sherlock hopped forward to catch up to Mycroft’s long strides. The elder Holmes glanced down with a bemused little smirk. “What were you two talking about?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but he matched his brother’s step out the oak door and all the way to the lift. Once inside, he glanced up and Mycroft glanced down, the two of them catching gazes. “Is he really your friend? That Auror?”

Mycroft nodded with a thin smile. “We met at Hogwarts in my third year. He was a fifth year, of course, but even after he graduated we stayed in touch.”

That would explain the somewhat frequent owls over the summers. Sherlock had always just assumed they’d been work letters or school notices. “So he’s older than you?”

It wasn’t really a question, for if it had been it would have been a stupid one. Mycroft managed to pick up on the meaning. “Friends don’t have to be your age. And they certainly don’t have to be in your house.”

Sherlock nodded as he processed, following behind his brother back to the office. One hand slithered up and grabbed the edge of Mycroft’s trousers as he sunk further into thought and stopped paying attention to where they were walking.

So he could look at friends in other houses besides Ravenclaw? Of course he knew that. He’d be stupid not to. Their classes were always mixed between houses. Still, he’d never given it true consideration. Maybe if he did try to talk to some of the upperclassmen…he was catching up to them in size, and one of them might actually keep up with him intellectually. And if he were looking into other houses, Hufflepuffs were said to be particularly loyal. It might be a good idea to try and befriend one of them.

“I want a Hufflepuff,” he decided, as Mycroft worked the fabric of his trousers out of Sherlock’s hand.

“They’re not pets. You have to talk to them,” he chided, but a smiled a little despite himself.

“Right,” Sherlock agreed, already filing away information and sorting through what he already knew about people. About their habits. How they preferred to be approached. How they preferred not to be approached. He’d have to find Gregory again later and figure out how he and Mycroft became friends. He surely wouldn’t ask Mycroft. 


End file.
